'protect'

By Kien-Ling Liem, Editor, Trinity College Student

Glass shatters against the concrete walls. Shards of glistening glass scatter all over the floor and prickles my cheeks. With a jolt, I flatten my body onto the wall behind the staircase, obscured in darkness. I pray my father does not see me and I hold my breath until stars appear in my vision. My mother curls up against the wall and is doused in fragments of glass. Her body is extremely small, fragile even, while my father towers over her. He stands quite far away but his shadow still engulfs her, swallowing her like a pill. My father’s face is twisted into a sick grin, his lips curled upwards, his eyebrows knitted and his eyes shrouded in violence. The whimpers reverberating from my mother echo around our bare apartment; my father takes a slow step towards her and her frail frame flinches. Her arms flail for something, anything, that can help her escape from this torture, and she locks eyes with me, her six year old son who knows nothing of love. Tears quiver on the edge of her eyelids and her large brown eyes are permeated with trepidation; her lips tremble and a whisper of my name flies off her lips before my father’s calloused fist collides into her delicate cheek. I close my eyes and start counting.

There is only silence after this. It rings in my ears. The whine of my mother is abruptly cut and my father cannot be heard: the slam of the front door is the only indication of his departure. I count to ten for the last time and open my eyes slowly. Although the apartment is dim, I squint as I observe my surroundings. My mother is lying on the musty floor, her left cheek bloody and bruised. She looks smaller than ever. I examine the room: the cupboards are open and a few stray cans remain on the shelves. He has taken almost all of the little we had left. With small steps, I emerge from the safety of the darkness and inch towards my mother. I sit down next to hear and caress her injured cheek with my fingers. My hand is glowing next to her damaged, tarnished face. Her eyelids flutter and I immediately draw back my hand. Slowly, her eyes pry open drunkenly and she manages a strained smile filled with anguish and regret. She grasps my hand in hers - they feel rough and uneven compared to my untouched skin. With a gentle tug, she wraps her scrawny arms around my torso and pulls me onto her chest. Her breathing is soft and steady and I fall asleep listening to the rhythmic beat of her heart.

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When I wake, there are harsh, fluorescent lights glaring down at me. My head is being cushioned by something silken yet rigid: I turn to realise it is my mother’s lap. As I glance at her I see that her cheek is still marked. Her eyes are swollen and heavy tears are still lingering on the corner of her eyelids. A teardrop falls onto my nose and we both exchange a smile as she strokes my hair. Sitting up, I try to adjust my eyesight as I glance around - the windows are all dark, pitch black almost, and there is a seemingly never ending array of counters with flashing, red electronic numbers above them. A woman shouts a series of numbers and my mother leaps from her seat, dragging me along with her and puncturing my daze. We arrive at the counter and I can barely see over the edge, my fingers gripping over the grimy table to see that the woman has a badge: we are at a police station.

It does not take long for my mother to begin crying again. Her shoulders heave as she unpacks the story of my father. The officer types everything on her computer but her eyes constantly glaze over the screen. When my mother is finished she pleads for a restraining order but the officer gives a nonchalant shrug and tells us to sit down. Defeated, we slump in our seats until the sun cannot be seen and dullness pervades the station; we wait until the officers command us to leave, but my mother’s wishes have not been granted. I hear the strain in her voice as she pleads the officers to let us stay, to let us face anything but home, anything but him. They do not listen.

We end up on a damp bench underneath a flickering street light, far away from our home but close to the police station. Soft winds drift towards us, knitting it’s way through my mother’s hair. She holds my face closely. Whispers some words into my ear; they disperse through me like warm water spilling on a carpet. I absorb them, folding it and tucking it away into a corner of my mind.

When I wake, the sun has risen, but just the tip of its rays lay on the sky. My mother is already awake. She notices my eyes, but covers them with her delicate fingers - she does not want me to see. See the fragility of the world, see that we are merely two dots on a map. Insignificant. She protects me, and in turn I will protect her too.